


Vergessen ist so leicht (wenn man vergessen kann)

by sunshinetina



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Friendship/Love, Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-06
Updated: 2014-12-06
Packaged: 2018-02-28 09:14:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2726915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshinetina/pseuds/sunshinetina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's easy to forget. Except, it never is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vergessen ist so leicht (wenn man vergessen kann)

**Author's Note:**

> There it is, another short Götzeus one-shot, again sporadically written. I just had some super strong emotions, started writing randomly, turned out to be again about Mario and Marco. *sighs*
> 
> The title is from this incredible song, which I adore (I adore Tim Bendzko, in general, but that's another thing): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TIFsN4pNlis [Vergessen ist so leicht (wenn man vergessen kann) = Forgetting is so easy (when a man can forget)]
> 
> P.S. Comments are always appreciated, especially when I am as highly emotional as I am right now. :(

You can forget. You can erase from your memory the smiles, the laughs, the voices. You can delete entire days, weeks, months. You can escape from everything.

 

Sometimes – you think – _sometimes_ you can even forget more than that. You can run away from the vivid memory of his crinkling nose when he laughs, of the half-crooked smile, of the sparkling green eyes and the mile-long eyelashes. Or you can bury down the thoughts of the chubby cheeks, the golden streaks in the thick brown hair, the so-often bit dark-pink lips.

 

(You think so. It never _is_ so.)

 

It could be easy, though. He leaves, you stay. He stays, you leave. He doesn’t call back for weeks (or maybe he does but you refuse to answer). (Or maybe you call but he is the one who never answers.) He moves on, you... you _have to_ move on. It could be easy. It _should_ be easy.

 

And you (almost) succeed. You train your body off, you exhaust yourself to the point of pain, you distract yourself with every single useless detail your tired brain can think of. It’s that easy, at the end of the day. You, yourself, and the emptiness. Never been easier.

 

When someone asks, the excuse of _I am tired, I need to sleep_ gets approval in the first few months. Thereafter, it is the not-so-secret code of _I am tired of remembering, I need to forget_.

 

It’s a year and a half now. Or less? Or more? (Not that you are counting every single day since the emptiness has started. Not that you are _actually_ counting them.) The phrase now means _I am tired of the loneliness, I need him_.

 

Now, that’s easy. It’s easy to admit that amongst the green eyes or the chubby face, you realise you miss the soft comforting whispers in your ear, the grins when only you two get a random reference, the blushes when you compliment him (or vice versa), the light kisses on the neck, and the oh-so-infamous (somehow _intimate_ ) celebration. It’s easy to sigh loudly and to say _I miss him_ – it’s simple, it’s logical, it’s acceptable. It’s not easy to say _I need him_. And it’s far from easy to say _I love him_.

 

Because no, you don’t love him. It’s not that easy. It never was with you two.  When you think about him, _love_ sounds simple, meaningless, empty. It’s anything but love; it’s love but anything else. (And you are never quite sure which one is the truth.) It’s not love when you’ve always put him before you; it’s not love when – _heck_ – you thought of you two as one whole; it’s not love when you can’t eat, think, sleep, _breathe_ without him. It’s not love. It’s not that easy.

 

What is easy is to lock up those thoughts in your mind, to capture those feelings in your heart. What is easy is to throw the key away, to isolate them in their own prison – far from everyone’s eyes and commentaries. It is easy to ignore, to smile, to pretend, when no one knows how painfully your day ends. It’s easy to put the mask of bravery and strength, to make everything else seem like disappearing with time.

 

Then you meet him, then he smiles, then he whispers something in your ear – doesn’t matter what – and you realise you have never really thrown that key away; and you unlock your heart and mind and you think of him and you feel for him and-...

 

For a second you think he is close, he is here, he is yours. But he never is. He smiles – no, he _shines_ like the sun he has always been (like _your_ sun) – and you can’t help but half-crook a smile back. Or maybe he half-crooks this typical shy smile of his, making you blush and lose breath and shine.

 

Five hours South and a happiness behind. (Yet, you are Mario. You are Germany’s golden-boy and you can’t be any happier.)

 

Five hours North and a lifetime behind. (Yet, you are Marco. You are just 25, and everyone says your whole formidable life is before you.)

 

Five hours. At the end of the day, all it takes is five hours. Meanwhile, endless morning, afternoon, and evening phone-calls. Shared laughs, unspoken words, barely heard whispers. And two promises, always given right after hanging up. One in Dortmund, one in Munich. _This is the last time. I am moving on. I can go on without him. Forgetting is so easy._

When a man can forget.

 

(You can’t.)


End file.
